


Angels Among Us

by storyspinner70



Category: Columbo, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Stanford Era (Supernatural), What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:07:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24850552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storyspinner70/pseuds/storyspinner70
Summary: A journalist is found dead of a suspected suicide just outside of LA, and it’s Detective Columbo’s very last case. Raves, nightclubs and a previously hidden murder have left Columbo both melancholy and happy for his retirement. Seeing another person in a trench coat isn’t exactly what he planned on when he entered The Know Where bar, but if there’s one thing Columbo has learned in his 45 years with the LA police force, it’s to always expect the unexpected.A Ficathon Goes into a Bar Prompt: Columbo goes into a bar and meets... Castiel (Supernatural)!
Comments: 12
Kudos: 34
Collections: A Ficathon Goes Into A Bar





	Angels Among Us

****A/N:**** Look, I’m not saying that Columbo and Sam ever crossed paths, but Columbo worked for a police force that was like half an hour from Stanford and his very last case was while Sam was a Sophomore at Stanford. Said case was all about raves and clubs and who liked those things better than college students? I’m just saying this could have happened, okay?

Also, thank god for my editor, who not only helps me make sense but went above and beyond to help me with this beyond editing. I’d die for you, BB. Well, maybe not, but a small wound at least.

****Angels Among Us** **

Columbo didn’t find himself in a bar very often. His wife didn’t like it when he drank. But he figured she’d understand this one time if he indulged just a little. His last case was done and all he had to do was head back to the precinct, fill out some paperwork and dig his gun out of his drawer to hand in with his badge.

45 years.

Columbo headed to the bar, taking everyone in the room in long, unobtrusive sweeps.

“What can I get you?”

“You serve any food?”

“Some. What you want?”

“You got any chili?”

“You’re in luck. Slim just made up a batch yesterday.”

Columbo took in Slim’s beefy body and the tattoos covering his arms. “Great. Let me get a bowl and some crackers.”

“What you want to drink?”

“Give me a coffee, black,” he sighed. “Gotta get home to the missus soon.”

The bartender rapped on the bar and walked off.

A few minutes later, he was back with Columbo’s coffee. Columbo pointed to an empty table and nodded at the bartender.

Before he could move, there was a breeze, seemingly from nowhere, that sent a cold shiver up his spine. Columbo was no stranger to instincts. Instincts had gotten him through the war and helped him solve a lot of his cases in both New York and LA. He might not trust other people’s but he swore by his own.

There was a flash of tan in the corner of his eye, but it seemed hard for him to focus on who had just come into his view. He twisted to lean casually on the bar to try and get a better look.

The man was wearing a trench coat not unlike his own. It was a little less worn, a little brighter, but it reminded him of his when he’d first bought it. The man was staring intently at a couple of men that had come in right before him.

Columbo had seen them, an older man and what he assumed to be his son. They’d been angry, the younger man stiff and silent, answering only in grunts when his visibly frustrated father bothered to speak to him.

Columbo might have just wrapped up his last case, but he was still a Lieutenant with the LAPD, and it felt in his gut like there was something here he needed to find out more about.

“I like your coat,” he said, clamping his perpetually gnawed on cigar tighter in his teeth. “You don’t see people in coats like ours too often.”

The man didn’t seem to hear him. “Very unusual,” he tried again.

The man finally turned bright blue eyes his way. “You can see me?”

Columbo kept his immediate thoughts to himself. “I sure can.”

“I hope Dean can’t,” he muttered. “I’m going to have to be more careful.”

“Dean?”

“The Righteous Man,” the man explained like Columbo should have known already. “I’m not supposed to be here, but he wanted to go see his brother, and that can’t happen yet.”

Columbo nodded as if it all made sense. The bartender set his chili and crackers on the bar, and Columbo nodded and paid quickly, never taking his eyes off the man at his side.

“What’s your name?” Columbo asked.

“Castiel,” the man answered absently. “I’m an angel of the Lord.”

Columbo tried hard not so show his surprise, but before he could reply Castiel had turned to him.

“Only the pure at heart can see an angel,” he said. “You must be a good man.”

Columbo considered himself a lot of things - a pretty good cop, a decent husband, a good liar when the case called for it, a good dog owner - but a good man wasn’t really one of them, certainly not the kind of good man that could see angels. Somewhere between the war and the teeming streets of New York and LA, he’d lost the faith he’d once had in heaps.

“I don’t know about that,” he said, digging into his chili.

“I do,” Castiel answered, his voice trailing off as the younger man he’d called Dean stood abruptly.

He leaned over the table to thrust his face closer to his dad’s, and though his voice was too low for Columbo to hear, Columbo was a pro at reading lips and the anger on Dean’s face left no doubt as to the tone of his voice.

“Fine, I won’t go talk to Sam, but you better, and soon. You hear me? You made him feel like he couldn’t come home, and you better fix it.”

His father asked where he was going, but Dean left without answering. The loud rumble of a muscle car sounded in the parking lot a few minutes later.

“Good. Things are back on schedule. Father will be pleased.”

“You mean God?”

“Of course, what other father would an angel have?” Castiel asked seriously, his head tilted to one side. “I know you’re sad,” he said, “but you were very good at your job, Frank. It’s time for you to rest.”

Columbo choked on his chili. _What? What had he said?_ When he looked up after clearing his airway, the man was gone. He looked around, but neither the door to the parking lot or the bathroom looked like they’d been disturbed.

Columbo left a quick tip and headed to his car. He was tired. That was all.

_That was all._

**

About a year later, Columbo had just settled into his favorite chair, his morning coffee and a couple of boiled eggs by his side. His raincoat and his trusty suit coat were hung in the coat closet for when he decided to go out, but he didn’t have any plans that day other than maybe mowing the lawn.

He’d gotten the paper so he could grab the crime section before the missus could declare he had no use for it anymore and gave it to Dog to drool all over. He was half done with it when a small article about a fire near the Stanford campus caught his eye.

He shook his head at the tragedy of someone as young as that student losing her life. When he got to the sentence about her sharing an apartment with her boyfriend, another student named Sam Winchester, Columbo couldn’t help but think of that night in the Know Where Bar.

He could still hear Dean’s angry voice as he talked about Sam. How the conversation was short and to the point but seemed to be about so much else underneath it all.

 _Nah_ , he thought. There must be a lot of Sams at Stanford. It couldn’t be related. _But that guy in the raincoat like yours disappeared into thin air, remember?_ He thought, and he wondered just how much of a coincidence it could really be.

He’d never spoken of that night, chalking it up to being tired and worn from the loud music and lights of the clubs he’d visited during the case. But he couldn’t help now but wonder.

“There’s something that bothers me,” he started, but his wife simply pulled the newspaper out of his hand.

“Eat your breakfast and mow the lawn before it gets too hot,” she said before heading to the kitchen.

Columbo looked at Dog, who had been settled at his feet hoping for some bits of egg.

“There was just one thing,” he said to his faithful companion, but Dog whined and trotted after his wife.

Columbo shook his head as he began to shell his eggs. He might not be a cop anymore, but something about that fire and those people at the bar didn’t sit right. He’d have to give Cap a call.

After he mowed the lawn, of course.


End file.
